Butterfly Princess
by Hubero
Summary: It started with a simple text. But nothing was ever simple for Clint Barton. A simple errand escalates into a dangerous confrontation. "Can I help you gentleman?" Clint asked the two causally, as if he were merely commenting about the weather and didn't have two guns in his face. Rated Teen for language and themes.


It started with a text. A seemingly innocent text.

**Can you pick up Abigail from ballet lessons?-Natasha**

It sounded simple enough. But nothing was ever simple for Clint Barton. He arrived at the studio no problem, after JARVIS had provided directions. He walked inside, nothing unusual happened. He arrived in the small room with mirrors that took up the whole wall. Railings took up nearly all the wall space. Abigail Victoria Barton, his eight year old daughter, was at one of these rails. She seemed to be deep in concentration practicing…something. That was when it happened.

He was about to say something to gain her attention when his senses blared. Without a second thought, he pulled out the two semiautomatics he had hid on his person and pointed them at the two dangers of the room. To the right was a short sturdy built—much like a dwarf—man with shades and a bandana covering his head. A large black coat hid any other possible weapons he had besides the gun pointed at Clint. He flicked his eyes to the left. This man was taller, wearing a light grey suit. He too had a gun pointed at Clint's head. The most interesting tidbit was the two guns they had pointed at each other. So…not working together then, judging by the slight scowl on the dwarf's face. Before he could examine the two closer, and perhaps determine who these men worked for, Abbigail turned her head and caught sight of him. Her face lit up and a grinned spread across her face.

"Daddy!" Within mere seconds, she had charged across the small room and flung her arms around his torso.

"Hi, princess." Some may find it strange that an eight year old girl would be completely at ease with ignoring a standoff. Truthfully, Clint wasn't sure if anything could faze his baby girl. Abigail had grown up surrounded by a man from the nineteen forties who appeared to be in his twenties, a scientist who could turn into a giant green range monster, the god of thunder, two master assassins, and an eccentric billionaire genius. He never took his eyes off the two gunmen. "Grab your things and I'll meet you in the car, okay?"

Abigail released her hold and skipped to the pile on the floor, a backpack with a stuffed frog peeking out. The stuffed frog had a crown on its head, and fairy wings had been strapped to its back. It was her most prized possession. She bounced to the doorway before glancing over her shoulder. "Hurry up. I'm hungry." And then she was out the door.

"Can I help you gentleman?" Clint asked the two causally, as if he were merely commenting about the weather and didn't have two guns in his face.

"I am not with him," the dwarf sneered.

"You're to come with me," the man in grey cut in smoothly, all but ignoring the other man. "Now."

"No, he's coming with me," the dwarf man growled.

"Don't be a fool." The dwarf's face began to turn red. Excellent, in his distraction, the arm pointed at Clint's head had drifted a few inches away. It was enough. He dropped and rolled out of pointblank range. Mr. grey suit immediately let loose a volley of shots. Bullets tore into the smooth wooden floor. The dwarf man, who Clint had temporarily taken cover behind, cried out when the other man's bullets tore into him. Clint rolled clear of the falling man and emptied his clip into the no longer firing stranger in grey. Mr. grey suit gasped and stumbled back in shock. Crimson blossomed on his short as he fell to his knees. His hands ran over his chest, as if they could magically heal the gaping holes in his chest. Surprised blue eyes met Clint's own before dulling. His body dropped like a marionette that had been cut free from its ties. Definitely dead. Clint cautiously approached the shorter man and—after seeing no movement—rolled him over with his foot. Most definitely dead.

"Damn." He muttered. He had wanted to question them. Neither one had anything visible that hinted at who they were. Professionals then. He was about to kneel down and search for any identification when a sound from outside distracted him.

"NO!" A high pitched shout. Abigail! He jumped to his feet and charged out of the room—reloading as he went. He preferred a bow, but he was just as dangerous with a gun.

"Whatcha gonna do about it, huh? You're just a helpless little girl," a deep voice mocked. Clint turned the corner. A man in dark clothes was in front of his little princess, looming over her. What was he mocking her with in his hand—oh. Uh oh.

"Give me back Mr. Ribbit!" Abigail shouted at the greasy looking man.

"I don't want to."

"Let him go!"

"…Are you sure?"

"Now!" The man tilted his head mockingly.

"Well, if you insist." Before Clint could blink, the man had carelessly tossed the stuffed frog into a nearby dirty puddle. Silence. Clint groaned. Sweet Jesus, the man was asking for a death sentence. He could imagine the look of outrage on Abigail's face. The girl lashed out with no warning. The man squeaked and dropped to his knees, covering his family jewels. He promptly fell on his side, courtesy of Abigail's right hook. And he howled when her heel came smashing down on his nose. The furious man attempted to get up, but the girl did not let up on her assault. He yelped when she stomped on his fingers. Again. And again.

"Don't. Touch. My. Mr. Ribbit!" she punctuated each word with a stomp. Clint finally took pity on the man and approached.

"Princess, why don't you see if you can save Mr. Ribbit." She glanced at him, then the sniveling man on the ground. She glowered at the man but did as her daddy asked. The man scrambled for something—with his unbroken hand—but Clint was quick to discourage him.

"Ah, ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you," he leveled his gun down at him. The man froze and Clint quickly retrieved the gun he had been trying to grab. Barton glanced at his daughter, she was fussing over how dirty her stuffed frog had become—"You will definitely be getting a bubble bath tonight, Mr. Ribbit."

"Who are you? Why are you here?" He asked.

"I don't have to answer you," he sneered at Clint. Barton frowned at the man. Abigail was next to him once more. She looked like she was seconds away from murdering the man who had _dared_ to take away her Mr. Ribbit. He seemed to realize that because he flinched at the sight of her, and then proceeded to reprimand himself for showing fear of an eight year old child.

"You _will_." Clint loomed over the man.

"Answer daddy's question or I'll stomp on your man parts!" Abigail growled, stomping her foot for emphasis. Clint suppressed the face twitch. Natasha was going to murder Tony if she ever heard that come from her daughter's mouth. The man swallowed.

"I'm just the driver, I swear!"

"Don't swear in front of my daughter!" Barton roared. The man cowered. Clint bit the inside of his cheek to withhold the snicker. His daughter, still angry, snorted in amusement.

"I'm sorry!" he whined. Pathetic. He had no problem with picking on a girl, but when someone his size showed up—

"Can we get ice cream?" Abigail gazed up at him with her big blue eyes.

"It's almost dinner time," he protested. She pouted.

"I just gotta make a call so someone can pick up this piece of shit," he muttered, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. Abigail's eyes lit up.

"You said a bad word!" Clint froze.

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did!"

"It's not a bad word."

"Fine," Abigail crossed her arms. "I'll ask mommy what it means." Clint gulped. Natasha had been going through a phase where no one was to curse around her little babochka*. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

"Ice cream?" she asked once more, this time more impishly. Clint sighed.

"Let me make a call for pickup."

"And then ice cream?"

"Yes, princess. And then we can get ice cream."

* * *

><p><strong>So, this is just a little one-shot dedicated to a friend of mind (who pestered me over and over until I gave in). It was inspired by a meme I stumbled across online. Clint is in the middle of this showdown and this girl just comes out of nowhere and hugs him. It's freaking hilarious. <strong>

**Any child of Black Widow and Hawkeye would be tough of nails, but I feel like Clint would be the dad who just can't say no to his baby girl. So she's also kind of girly. Plus, keep in mind that she would have been raised surrounded by people of different temperaments and attitudes (Tony, Steve, Thor, Pepper, Bruce). You get the idea. Which is why she can be sweet and innocent one moment (Steve's influence) to rude and foul in the next (Tony) Hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you thought! :)**

***Babochka is Russian for butterfly. Butterflies, I believe, symbolize playfulness. They also come across as free spirits. Both could be used to describe Abigail. **

**~Hubero**


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